I stopped believing in luck the day Darren died .
I had dropped him off that morning at the House Of Tools to pick up some safety goggles he'd ordered. My final image of him is so vivid: Yellow rain pants and slicker, and a broad grin as he blew me a kiss good-bye. He didn't seem to be dreading the day ahead at all, even though it meant eight hours of cleaning eavestroughs in the relentless Vancouver rain.
On my way into the office, I picked a penny up off the sidewalk, not willing to defy the opportunity of having good luck all day long, Nevertheless, the day passed uneventfully, just as any other gray Wednesday had before. I do remember that the printer jammed at work, making me abrupt with Darren on the telephone when he called. I still think of that each and every time the printer jams now.
We had been invited to my nephew's fourth birthday party that evening, but Darren wasn't feeling well so he stayed home to rest. I suggested he turn the ringer off on his phone. He did.
I will never know if he actualy lay dying as I rang him to see how he felt or if, at that point, he was still just resting quietly, curled up on his bed between Trouble and Bront, the two cats he'd rescued from a brutal Winnipeg winter. This thought continues to haunt me.
Thursday, October 9, 1997, 12:30 a.m. My two dearest wake me from a heavy sleep, with persistent ringing of my apartment buzzer. "Hello?"  "Lorraine, it's Rani and Terri.  Let us in" pause.
I wouldn't. I guess I knew something was terribly, terribly wrong.
The buzzer screeched again.
"Lorraine, Please let us in." I did.
I had the door to my apartment open before they came out of the elevator, and I saw a look I never wamt to see again. I turned on my heel and strode away from them. They had decided on the car ride over that Rani would tell me. Terri was chalk white and her bottom lip quaked uncontrollably.
It astounds me how I can recall every single detail of that night.
"Lorraine, he's dead. Darren's dead."
My soal mate. My best friend. My kindred spirit. My lover. My future. Dead.
Those words triggered a fierce vacuum that twisted my worldinside out.
It has now been 230 days, four hours and 47 minutes since that moment. Nearly seven months have passed in a colorless blur. Thanksgiving, Christmas, my birthday, Easter have all come and gone. unobserved- I wanted nothing to do with them. "whats the point?" I retort when people broach the idea that I  should start getting on with my life. "WHY?" Because Darren would want you to, is generally the reply. "Well, now if Darren wanted a say in how I live, he should never have died and left me."  No one knows what to say to that. Subject closed. For now.
Really all I want is answers- some kind of explanation. I have gone to a grief support group and I see a counsler, looking for answers. I have read more than 50 books, with titles ranging from How to go on when someone you love dies and transcending Loss, to life after death and Hello to Heaven- Looking for answers. I have even read 532 pages pf the Autobiography of a Yogi hoping to discover some revelation in the wisdom of a distinguished  and selebrated guru. I am desparate. I have been searching everywhere for the answers, without even knowing what the questions are.
Then one day it hit me. The realization stormed over me with a shudder that physically rocked me back on my heels.
I was standing in the psychology section of my community library, scanning titles, when the most rational moment I'd experienced since October 8th pushed therough the leaden stool that riddled my consciuosness and forced this realization. No book was going to give me what I wanted.
It became clear that what had kept drawing me along my journey for answers were not profound or metaphysical questions. I had been searching for a way to bring Darren back. I wanted a secret formula to fall out of the pages that could turn time back, or take the ashes out of the Urn that sitw on his mothers mantel and put them back into human form, or at the very least incite his spirit to return and embrace me, especially in the dark, interminable capsule of time just before dawn when my soul yearns for him the most.
No book could give me that. Neither could a counsler of a grief group, or even those gospel shows I had taken to watching during those nights that sleep refused to come. For the first time in dozens of visits to the libraries and bookstores, I went home empty-handed. What was I going to do now? What could I do? Nothing. I could do nothing.
What still amazes me is that noone could do anything- not my family or friends who implored me to let them help somehow, not the sympathetic yet still very official police officers who investigated his death , not the minister who led Darren's memorial service, not even God. Noone could bring Darren back. The stark finality is incomprehensible.
I have challenged anf been conquered by the only absolute this world holds.
Grief is a funny thing. I was standing in a line surrounded by people I love, idly chatting and laughing when, without warning, I was forced aboard a rollercoaster, completely alone. Death strapped me in and pulled the lever until it read "Full Speed Ahead" and, as the car shot off, taking me on a course that I alone could trabel. I strained over my shoulder begging to be let off so I could go back to be with the people who I left behind.
OH, I am still kicking and screaming and most of the time I deny that I am even on this ride. But I am. And I will never be the same.
Darren is (or was- I still have difficulty referring to him in the past tense) a beautifully insightful poet and lyricist. I could never tire of listening to the words he so poingnantly strung togather.
There is a line in one of his favored songs, Sooner or later, that reads "You can't pull punches when your deep in a fight. If I left you alone would you be alright? All you've got left is your soul." I don't know what was on his mind when he wrote these words, and I never really thought about it before. Now, I know that they nailed my grief to the board.
Darren if you are near me now and reading over my shoulder, there is something you should know. When your soul mate dies , you don't get to keep your soul. Mine went with you when you left. I never even knew how much I used it until it was gone.
In your song you asked if you left me alone , would I be alright? Well, I'm alone now and I have to say that I dont know if I will . You see, the thought of living another day without you seems unbearable to me. Yet, most days, I get up, get dressed and go through the motions of my day, waiting for the moment when I can lie in bed again and beg God to let you visit me in my dreams.
So, when I'm asked if I will be alright, all I can say is I don't know I havn't been able to find the answer to that question either.
Written by Lorraine, Soul mate of Darren.